I think it’s no accident that in Wilkie Collins’ The Moonstone, there’s more than a suggestion of lunacy. Characters go mad with love or opium, or cultivate obsessions ranging from roses to evangelical tracts and Robinson Crusoe. And not all of them can offer the stone’s curse as an excuse.

Many readers have commented on the number of ‘firsts’ that the Moonstone represents for a mystery novel. I’ll offer a couple more that I didn’t see mentioned: first story in which a great detective initially fails to solve the case, then gets another shot and makes it count; and first story to use a device that’s brilliant in context, but can never be used again because it’s so unlikely and would immediately make any reader think, ‘The author is just copying The Moonstone.’

The journey, with its multiple narrators, is varied and satisfying. The nineteenth-century pacing means that it takes longer than you might have expected, and you wind up lingering in a few country lanes or village pubs while you wait for fresh horses, but that’s far from a bad thing. And then, of course, there’s the happy ending. Characters you like are rewarded (or possibly go to their graves still concealing terrible secrets that have ruined their lives, but hey, it’s Victorian times, so you have to expect a bit of that). Best of all, the Moonstone is returned to where it should have been centuries ago: the temple of the moon god, whose devotees include, whether they know it or not, most of the characters in this book.

“Look! Blue apples in the trees!”

Peter in Blueberry Land
(Elsa Beskow)

Today I went out with my wife, son and daughter to pick high-bush blueberries. We have five bushes, and they’re bearing well this year, which means that some days in July we need all hands on deck. We head out with our containers and go along the row, reaching up and down, pulling branches back, sometimes merging with the bush to find the berries hiding in its depths. Blueberries become, for us, an element in themselves–deep blue like the sky swelling with rain just before a storm breaks, or gleaming even more darkly, like black pearls. “Annihilating all that’s made / To a blue thought in a green shade” (with apologies to Andrew Marvell–again).

We’re not alone, of course. Ants crash this party as they do any other. One of our cats wanders over to see what we’re doing, losing interest when it concludes that what’s happening is actually some form of work. The resident mockingbirds, perching a couple of bushes down from where we’re picking,  keep an eye on us and give their alarm call now and then. They started feeling uneasy about me when I trimmed the hedge where they have their nest, and now their darkest suspicions have been confirmed. We leave some blueberries for them as a peace offering.

When I close my eyes at night, I still see blueberries, hiding behind and under leaves in the sun and shadow. I’m holding a handful already, but wherever I look, there are always more. I reach through the bush to where I’ve just glimpsed the best one yet, round and ripe, dusky twilight blue, finding it more by touch than sight.

Sometimes I miss, and wind up picking a berry that’s still small and green, and now will never ripen. But more often than not, it’s perfect.

Many fantasy stories deal with the protagonist’s transition between our everyday reality and one that’s more…well, fantastic. And it is a big deal. If I opened my basement door tomorrow and found that it had morphed into the passage to a magical world, I’m sure I’d feel either traumatized, or ecstatic–probably both by turns. And assuming I survived, I’d be raving about it to my family and friends (at least, those I thought I could trust) for weeks on end.

I suspect, though, that it’s possible to treat the transition too realistically. One consideration for me is that I read a lot of fantasy…so that means that along with the good stuff (you know, fairies, magic swords, wizards and witches, etc.), I might also wind up reading pages and pages about the shock and angst experienced by characters who find out there’s more to the world than they’d assumed. Of course a character’s reactions might vary depending on their personality, and also what their role in this brave new world turns out to be–are they the Chosen One? The Cursed And Despised Outcast? Or just a foot soldier in somebody else’s war?

Still, though, I would think most people’s inner dialogue would turn into an endless loop, something like this: “How can this be real…what’s happening to me…and what’s that THING over there?”

Which basically boils down to ‘Is this really happening, or am I going crazy?’ Now, you may choose to make this question a major theme of your story, as Steven R. Donaldson did in the Thomas Covenant books. But if you’re not going to do that, I’d argue that devoting too much space to your protagonist’s shock takes away from the really meaty parts, which is why I (and probably I’m not the only one) read fantasy in the first place.

So, as you’ve probably guessed, I tend to take a fairly minimal approach to the element of surprise. Granted, not quite as minimal as M.R. James did in his short story, After Dark in the Playing Fields, where his narrator’s reaction to a talking owl is:

“We will take as read the sentences about my surprise.”

Well, you have to be M.R. James to get away with something like that, but I understand the impulse. Personally, I do try to show that the protagonist knows some really strange stuff is going down, but I don’t feel like much is added by belaboring the point.

And what if the character is already half expecting reality to implode? From one of my unpublished stories:

“It was a black-and-white world, like Dorothy’s Kansas. Nessie had always thought that the same thing would happen to her someday. There would be some turbulent time first, no doubt–a storm, a failed love affair, some dark night of the soul. But then the other world would open before her, with colors never seen on earth.”

Sometimes I think the real surprise is, most of us don’t find the way to that other world. Personally, I’m going to feel just a bit cheated if it never happens. But who knows, maybe there’s still time!

I’ve been watching the Witches of East End series lately, which takes bits and pieces from Wicca and Norse religion and mixes them together in a brew not so much sinister as silly. But the part that bothers me most at the moment is that when the eponymous witches speak a spell, it’s almost always in Latin. Sometimes, under stress, they forget and descend into English, but often the spell doesn’t really start to work until they get hold of themselves and repeat the same words, only in Latin.

Since our family home schools and my wife believes in a classical education, our kids are learning Latin. Apparently I can rest assured that they’re being well prepared for any one of the magical professions. In fact, I’ve often wondered whether I should study Latin myself–the next time I break a glass, for instance, I could just mutter “E pluribus unum” and fully expect it to reassemble, good as new.

I suppose this idea can be ultimately traced back to the Catholic Church in Europe, back in the good old days of Latin Masses. After all, the priest was doing magic stuff up at the altar, right? So he must be using a magic language! But as far as contemporary usage goes, Harry Potter seems to be the culprit. Spells in the Potter universe never use language as mundane as ‘Lose that wand’ when ‘Expelliarmus’ will do, or ‘Turn on the light’ when you can intone ‘Lumos’. And ever since we’ve had to endure witches and wizards everywhere waving their wands while chanting Latin translation exercises. I suppose we’re lucky nobody’s come out with a story about porcine magic wielders, since they would inevitably use Pig Latin.

But I think this is a cheap trick. What spells should really require is poetry–good poetry. Poets and magicians overlapped a lot in the past, and more the further back you go. There’s Wainamoinen in the Finnish epic, the Kalevala, who sings the world into existence. One of the gods’ great victories over the giants was when Odin stole the mead of poetic inspiration. There are the bards of Celtic legend who could blast armies with their verse.

To illustrate, I offer a couple of spells in the lowly English language. One is out of Shakespeare:
“Not marble, nor the gilded monuments of princes, will outlive this powerful rhyme.”

That, ladies and gentlemen, is an incantation, and quite a decent one at that…not to mention that it has apparently worked.

And here’s the tag end of a spell used in one of Manly Wade Wellman’s Silver John stories, which I’ve translated from Appalachian dialect to more “standard” English:
“I made my wish before. I make it now. I never saw the day my wish was not true.”

That’s the real stuff. But if you’re still dead set on using another language to make everyday phrases sound impressive and magical, why not learn Babylonian? I’d wager many demons and spirits haven’t heard that in quite a while. They might prick up their ears and maybe, just maybe, give you a little more respect than they offer the dreary legions of magicians muttering Latin ad nauseum.

Just a quick update…I’m working on finishing my latest book, Father Winter, which is a holiday themed story (that’s ‘Yule’ for us old-school types) about a brother and sister, one who believes and one who doesn’t, who journey to the North Pole in search of Father Winter (a.k.a. Santa Claus and a long list of other names). I’m hoping that readers of any age from 10 on up will enjoy this story. I’m probably going to release it around the end of October, and I’m considering doing a Goodreads giveaway at that time.

I haven’t forgotten Sean in the meantime–he has recently set up a Pinterest board with images that remind him of his experiences in The Road to Hel.

I just finished the translation of the original edition of the famous fairy tales. I’m now equipped for anything life can throw at me. My takeaways:

1) When you set out to seek your fortune, it’s best to be clever and industrious. However, if you’re foolish and lazy, but not actually mean, you might still have a shot.
2) Be kind to animals, except when they ask you to cut off their heads.
3) You should also chop the heads off evil giants, dragons, and other nuisances. But make sure you keep their tongues (see #4), though exactly where you should keep them, I have no idea.
4) Princesses are generally trustworthy. Brothers, not so much.
5) If you accidentally overhear a password that opens a magical door, write it down.
6) Unicorns are not cute. They’re actually an exotic, invasive species that can cause a lot of destruction. At a minimum, they must be trapped and removed. Worst case, see #3.
7) Spells may be put on anyone at any time for any reason, or no reason at all. They can be broken in any number of ways. Try having somebody slap you, kiss you, or do something–anything–three times. The only sure way to not break a spell is to do nothing.
8) Death is just another spell.

I’m participating in this sale along with a bunch of other fantasy writers. For my part, my newest e-book The Road to Hel will be on sale May 7th to 14th for $0.99 (and 99 pence in the UK store). Also, my first e-book, Robin Hood: Wolf’s Head has been reduced to 99 cents/pence regular price.

Here are 7 other great stories on sale during this time–I’m planning on checking out some of these myself!

These titles are only $0.99:
The Lost Forest
The Sorcerer’s Oath Book 3
Jenny Ealey
$0.99 May 6-8

A Slave to Magic
Tales from Nol’Deron
Lana Axe
$0.99 May 4-10

Beneath the Canyons
Daughter of the Wildlings Book 1
Kyra Halland
$0.99 May 7-14

Az: Revenge of an Archangel
AA Bavar
$0.99 May 7-14

The Fairy Wren
Ashley Capes
0.99 until May 9th

Beyond the Sun
Sandra Bischoff
$0.99 May 6-12

Beyond Time
Sandra Bischoff
$0.99 May 6-12

The next two titles are FREE:

The Core Stone
The Storm Seer’s Prophecy Book 1
Robert D. Stanley
Free May 8-12

Swords and Sorcery
The Faerie Tales Book 1
Lee Tozer
Free May 7-8

And last but not least…Bargain Priced!

The Bow of Destiny
The Bow of Hart Saga Book 1
PH Solomon
Only $2.99 May 7-14

When I was growing up, my mom had a couple of bookcases full of mysteries in the hall upstairs, outside my room. Although I walked by those bookcases every day, I was never remotely interested in their contents, my young mind being almost completely consumed with fantasy and science fiction.

As you get older, you learn that some things change and some things don’t. This rather stale crumb of wisdom means, in my case, that I still read (and write) fantasy. Science fiction, not so much. On the other hand, these days I often read mysteries–generally those belonging to the ‘cozy’ category and more specifically, ‘Golden Age’ mysteries, which were written from the 1930s through the 1950s. Most of them are English–Dorothy Sayers, Edmund Crispin, et al–though there were also some notable American authors like John Dickson Carr and Elizabeth Daly.

Am I just hopelessly schizophrenic, or is there a common thread here? (Well, yes, both could be true, but let’s put that aside for the moment.)

Note that I’m not really talking about mixed genres. An element of mystery is found in many stories of different types. For example, Dickens’ Bleak House and Dostoyevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov are, among other things, murder mysteries. On a lowlier and more personal note, my two published books include mysteries of a sort–in The Road to Hel, who is the traitor? And in Robin Hood: Wolf’s Head, who is the narrator, and what made his friend the hermit renounce the world?

But here, I’m comparing ‘pure’ fantasies and mysteries, fantasy first. What makes a fantasy story? It might have dragons, or not. It could be full of elves, or infested with vampires. It could take place almost anywhere and the plot could be whatever you like. I’d argue that at bottom, it’s the presence of working magic that defines fantasy. That’s what removes fantasy from the realm of the mundane, from Lord Dunsany’s ‘the fields we know.’

It seems to me now mysteries also contain a sort of magic. The murder itself is something that (we hope) distances the mystery story from the everyday realm. It must be, of course, a puzzling and well plotted murder, not the result of some random mugging. It must be a murder that is itself a sort of magical attack, the evil ‘magician’ using this means to impose his or her will on the world. This evil ‘magic’ must be opposed by the sleuth, who possesses amazing mental powers that at least seem magical to the onlooker, though everything may be explained at the end. These powers allow the sleuth (who is often an unlikely or overlooked person, like the humble heroes of many fantasy stories) to solve the puzzle and right the balance of the world again.

That said, I’d like to see more tales that are fully both fantasies and mysteries. The only example I can bring to mind is Randall Garrett’s Lord Darcy series. Can anyone tell me of any other works like that out there in the story multiverse?

In R.A. Lafferty’s great science fantasy novel, ‘Annals of Klepsis’, the protagonist is visiting a strange planet while posing as a well-known historian. The planet’s ruler advises him that he had better do or say something distinguished every few minutes, or risk being executed immediately.

Luckily, authors face a lesser challenge. Our problem is that posed by Robert Heinlein: we’re competing for Joe’s (or Josephine’s) beer money. If a potential reader decides that a six-pack has more entertainment value than the author’s latest and greatest, the author will–figuratively, at least–go hungry.

Starving in a garret is still a lot better than execution, of course. But as A.E. Houseman famously observed, ‘Ale does more than Milton can / To justify God’s ways to man.’ In other worlds, beer is a really tough competitor. Still, I’d point out that books–some of them, anyway–are capable of giving the reader a lasting glow without the punishment of a hangover.

And with the rise of the e-book, things are looking up for poor starving authors. Now a reader can grab an entertaining book for, in many cases, less than the price of a single bottle (especially if you’re talking craft beer).

Let’s hope brewers don’t up the ante by developing some kind of e-beer. That would be just wrong.

I just picked up the first book of an epic fantasy trilogy. It wouldn’t be fair to mention the title or author, since I may not even finish the book. The writing is good, yet I have to push myself to read it. In fact, since my younger days when I read and re-read series like Lord of the Rings, Thomas Covenant, Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser, and even (shudder) Gormenghast, I’ve been drawn less to epic or ‘high’ fantasy, and the other day it occurred to me to wonder why.

I still love fantasy that incorporates actual history–such as Tim Power’s The Anubis Gates, and Susanna Clarke’s Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, for example. What I’m realizing is that I don’t care as much for stories dealing with worlds that have been artificially constructed, however creative the author. I would rather read a novel that touches on the Bourbons or the Plantagenets, instead of aristocratic intrigues in the decadent culture of the Shazooreth city-states. I would rather learn something about Brazilian culture (for instance) than sort out the strange beasts and stranger geography of the world of Otayaba.

At the same time, there are still non-historical, non-urban fantasy (rural fantasy?) series that I like–for example Patricia Wrede’s Enchanted Forest books. Dragons, wizards, castles and talking animals abound in such stories, so what’s the difference? I pondered this awhile and decided that stories like Wrede’s are also set in a world we know, and have known and told stories about for thousands of years: the realm of Faerie. And yes, I think that it is, like this world, a real place–of which Tolkien said, “…it holds the seas, the sun, the moon, the sky; and the earth, and all things that are in it: tree and bird, water and stone, wine and bread, and ourselves, mortal men, when we are enchanted.”

This doesn’t mean storytellers can’t discover new parts of Faerie. But when they do, I don’t expect them to come with meticulously plotted maps and libraries full of historical scrolls relating wars and dynasties. (Tolkien’s work might seem like an exception to this, but of course Middle-Earth in Lord of the Rings is not Faerie: it’s our own world, Midgard, in the far past.)

So I guess I’m basically a traditionalist, sticking in the timeless mud of Elfland and Earth. Maybe I should give a fancy name to this principle, like ‘Tolkien’s Razor’: No need to build a new world when we have two such magical realms from which to choose.